Confession
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: "I'll put the kettle on. You two might want to make use of those booths over there. Warm the body and the soul. Wouldn't want that soul to get too warm, now, though, eh?" He winked. Father Brian is in there right now." kinkmeme prompt: Stuck going to Confession during a case, Sherlock confesses "seducing" an authority figure as a child- believing it to be all his fault.
1. William Vernet

The weather was cold and damp, and the wind cut through your clothes not so much like a sharp knife as like a battle axe. John kept his hands in his pockets while Sherlock kneeled on top of a grave, tracing his fingers along the cold stone. John didn't know what he was searching for, but he assumed it had something to do with the frequency of visitors to this gravesite. He wished they would leave. Not only was it bitter cold, but there was something about Sherlock kneeling on top of a grave that felt so very wrong. Plus, he'd spent entirely too much time associating Sherlock with tombstones and simply didn't want to do it anymore.

"Did you find whatever it is you're looking for? Can we go?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. It was his wife. Definitely."

"Good. I mean, not good. But, let's go, okay?"

"John, one would think you're afraid of ghosts."

"No, it's just, it's a bit disrespectful. Standing on top of someone's body."

"Mmmm. I don't think he minds. Especially in the service of justice, for his own death."

Sherlock moved to the side, though, and continued to examine the stone.

"Haven't seen ye round these parts before! Did ye know Michael McNally?"

John turned abruptly and stared at the priest, scrambling for words. Sherlock spoke.

"I was told we might be related. Website suggested some ancestors of mine might be buried in this cemetery. Looking for birth and death dates, to do some further research." John tried not to look surprised. Sherlock's voice sounded infinitely more...accessible. He wondered who he was going to have to be. He didn't mind this, it was kind if fun, actually, but thinking on his feet was not his forte. Sherlock continued. "Never expected to be in Ireland, but since we're here for a medical conference, which, coincidently, put me within an hour of this village, I thought I'd drop by. William Vernet. Pleased to meet you, Father." Sherlock smiled amiably (John recognised it as Amiable Smile Number Three) and shook hands with the elderly man. "I never knew this part of my family. Was told they scattered after the Revolution. Ended up in England, Ireland, Scotland...seems there are some people I won't have the chance to get to know. He died young! Does he has any living relatives? Maybe I won't be too late to meet them." He looked hopeful. "Did they attend services here? His family?"

"No. Been far too long since Michael stepped into a church, I dare say. Saw quite a bit of his dad, though. Sometimes saw the wife and kids, too. Less and less over time."

"Shame."

"'Tis. Come in. I'll get you some tea. Weather's brutal today."

"Do you mind, John?"

John relaxed a bit, hearing his name. He was to be Dr. John Watson, medical conference attendee. That's good. That works.

"No. I could stand a good warming up."

"Well then, do come in, both of ye."

Sherlock followed the priest into the church. He looked around, awkwardly.

"Been far too long for ye as well, I see. When was your last confession?"

"Far too long."

"I'll put the kettle on. You two might want to make use of those booths over there. Warm the body _and_ the soul. Wouldn't want that soul to get too warm, now, though, eh?" He winked. "Father Brian is in there right now."

The priest disappeared, and Sherlock spoke rapidly and quietly. "One of us needs to be coming out of there when he gets back. It is imperative he sees it. Go in there and confess something."

"What?"

"You heard me. Make something up. I don't care. Just do it."

John glared, but still found himself walking into the booth.

After a short while, he walked back out again. It was Sherlock's turn to glare. The priest had not returned with the tea. Clearly he was giving them both time to make a confession. Sherlock sighed and entered the booth.

John sat in the pew and waited. Sherlock was taking longer than he had expected. The priest came over with tea, handed one to John, then glanced towards the booth. "I'll wait a bit for your friend," he said, then ducked into another room. Shortly after that, John thought he heard Sherlock's voice, still muffled within the confines of the booth, but clearly agitated.

Oh God. Sherlock was arguing with a priest.


	2. Sins

Sherlock emerged from the confessional scowling, with the tinge of pent-up fury colouring his impossibly-high cheekbones. John felt a wave of compassion for Father Brian... an annoyed Sherlock Holmes was never a good thing. He recovered fairly quickly and sat down next to John, though he refused to look at him. By the time the other priest had returned with Sherlock's now lukewarm tea, he was placid once again. Or at least appeared to be significantly more so.

The priest (Father Patrick) had mentioned how Mrs. McNally had come with her two daughters several times, then left a few days after her husband's heart attack to move in with her mother in the City. If Mr. Vernet wanted to visit the girls, he was pretty sure their mother was not welcoming guests, it being so soon after her husband's death, the shock and all. Michael had a sister in Kilkenny. He didn't know her address, but it might be easy to find. He could look at old church records for a more complete picture of his ancestry?

Sherlock explained the visit had been a bit of a whim, and he had to return to his conference, but he wrote down the names and locations and promised he'd contact them by mail to express his sympathy, and attempt to learn more about the family history at a less emotionally trying time. He thanked him for his gracious hospitality, and headed to the car. He slammed the door a little too hard, and drove in uncharacteristic silence, then turned to John with a certain dogged determination that made the doctor's heart race (and his stomach drop just a bit, to be honest).

"Rather enjoyed that bit of absolution?"

John grinned. "Now you are going to deduce my sins, are you?"

"Simple. Petty teenage theft. I'd figure, what, a couple of Hail Marys and you are good as new?"

John shook his head in disbelief. "I've killed people, Sherlock. Why do you think I wouldn't confess to something more severe than shoplifting?"

"You're not Catholic, so you wouldn't think of confession as being inherently necessary. Regarding recent events... the dissolution of your marriage occurred under such unusual circumstances that you could not feel legally nor morally responsible." John nodded silently. The recent memory still stung. "You've a strong moral principal. If you truly thought killing that cabbie wasn't justified, you wouldn't have done it. You did it to save lives... mine, and the others he would have targeted in future. If the idea of taking a life, any life, had been an issue, you would have had ample time to have resolved that with a member of the clergy in Afghanistan... along with anything else which might have occurred while you were stationed there. As an educated medical doctor, I doubt you see self-abuse as a sin, so much as a natural function." John's face reddened just slightly, but he agreed. "So, what would you not have bothered to confess to in Afghanistan? Something you thought wasn't worthy of their time. Something clearly wrong, but which everybody likely did at one time or another. What did you steal, John? A record album would be awkward and I doubt you had a CD player until you were in college. Cigarettes. No, more likely alcohol."

"Alcohol _and_ cigarettes. Though the cigarettes weren't for me."

"Most people steal in their youth. It's a right of passage."

"You've nicked things too, then? Besides from Lestrade, I mean. And ashtrays, come to think of it. And...why am I even asking this, of course you have."

"Slight of hand, element of distraction, all useful skills. I'd be remiss in my training if I didn't know how to steal."

"Felt kinda good. To admit to it, I mean... not to do it. To confess."

"Confession and absolution are generally considered helpful... to be truly forgiven, let go, move on. Especially when one considers how criminals are often driven by their inability to forgive themselves."

"How they convince themselves they are bad people, undeserving of compassion, only to make themselves exactly that? So, did you confess too, or did you just start some theological debate with the priest?"

Sherlock glanced away from the road and examined John. Even though the rural road cutting through farmland was deserted, it was still long enough to get a little nervous about his continuing to drive. He turned at least part of his focus back on the road and began to speak.

"My maternal grandmother was Catholic. I've been to confession before. As far as stealing things in my youth, I returned them. It was the ability to take the thing I found thrilling, not possession of the thing itself. It was equally thrilling to put it back, unnoticed. As far as today's confession, Father Brian chose not to grant me absolution."

John dropped the subject. He wasn't up on Catholic theology, but knew enough from friends that a priest could deny absolution if one wasn't truly repentant. Picking fights was probably not a particularly helpful gesture either.

"So, are we headed to Dublin then?"


	3. The Sins of Another

The further away from the country they drove, the more John's face fell.

"You like the idyllic façade of the countryside, as opposed to the industrial city grit?"

"Fresh air, open spaces, grass. Lovely, scattered farmhouses. Peaceful. If we stayed the night, there would be actual stars."

Rather than present a ruse, Sherlock simply informed Mrs McNally that he was investigating her husband's death, due to some inconsistencies in the autopsy report. She didn't ask him for details, and said there wasn't much to tell; she woke up to a cold body beside her.

Though the house was comfortable, perhaps even overly-warm to insulate against the chill of winter turned to early spring, Cathleen McNally still frequently tugged the sleeves of her jumper down over her wrists and wore a high lace collar. The oldest child wore similar clothing, with a silk scarf in an elaborate paisley pattern, far too old for her. Hiding marks. Bruises. The younger ones were napping upstairs. They didn't stay long.

"The vilest, filthiest city alleyway or the smiling, beautiful countryside? Our impressions are misleading. Lonely houses, with large spaces in between... one could do nearly anything unnoticed... and yet it is always cities that get the reputation for the crimes people seek to escape."

Sherlock fired off a text to Lestrade and began the long drive to the rural airfield.

"Lestrade arresting her?"

"Dull case. He can continue to pursue it. I have no obligation to do so. I gave him my own insight. If she's still in Dublin, he can collect her."

It never failed. Every time he thought the man callous, Sherlock showed his compassion by appearing even more callous to someone else.

"Do you still want it?"

Sherlock turned, perplexed. "Do I still want what?"

"Sorry, you do it so much, sometimes I still forget that you're not a mind reader. Do you want absolution? For, whatever was weighing on your mind enough to not have made something up while you were in that booth."

"It's hardly necessary."

"Yes, but that's not what I asked. And there is a reason why it's on your mind, I'm sure. Otherwise, you wouldn't bring it to the forefront."

"I... was in a relationship with an older man. An instructor of mine." John had suspected Sherlock was gay when they first met, but had shortly thereafter placed him firmly in the 'I'm not interested in a relationship, and definitely not interested in one with you' category, which was enough to cut off further exploration. Irene was of interest. He had thought Janine was, too, until he had pieced together the whole story, partly from what he had observed and partly from overhearing Mary and Janine's chats. They had never discussed it, though... he and Sherlock. So. He was gay. Or maybe labels were more suitable for his bespoke suits then for his sexuality. Might have just been a passing phase at Uni. Sherlock Holmes was not one to be satisfied using other people's data without recreating his own... experiments. John struggled to turn off his internal monologue and focus on Sherlock's actual words and on trying to look nonchalant. "I broke up his marriage. I thought it had been over anyway, but it turns out discovering his affair with me had been the final straw."

John nodded.

"Father Brian told me I was not responsible for the sins of another. If I was truly worried about Holy Judgment, if I didn't consider the whole thing an absurd fallacy, I'd be seeking out another priest."

"Given I didn't even get a free pass on my sticky fingers, I would suspect he had a good reason for denying you your part in it. And good marriages, where there is love and trust, don't just end if someone tries to...poke at the edges." He doubted the priest would have thought adultery a minor offense, even if he wasn't the married one. John's mind raced through possible reasons Sherlock's role was minimized to the point of not requiring any penance whatsoever and landed on one. Coersion. "He didn't, uh, threaten to give you a bad grade if you didn't comply, did he?"

"Oh. Oh, no, John, nothing like that."

"Good. For a minute I thought that..."

"You were wondering why he wouldn't absolve me and you thought it was an issue of consent. No. He said that I couldn't be held accountable for my actions because I was too young."

John's relief was short-lived. "How old were you?"

"Thirteen."


	4. Manipulation

John was balancing his confusion with his fury. He had felt a wave of relief when his friend had unwaveringly stated it was not in any way coercive, although the teacher/student dynamic had made that highly suspect. Now, he was discovering it was not only coercive, but probably just months past an automatic rape conviction.

"John. I know what you're thinking, John, but remember, this was _me_."

John grit his teeth. Unfortunately, he had no problem remembering that.

"I was not your typical thirteen-year-old. I was reasonably close to my current height, more or less the same build, already had a knowledge-base stronger than most adults and was actively seeking out new experiences. You can erase your mental image of a vulnerable teenager."

_Barely a teenager_, John thought.

"I tried to convince the priest of that, but there was really no point. He kept insisting I had no control over the situation. I couldn't make him understand how it really was...how I am. _You _know better, though."

The absolute last emotion John had expected to feel when a friend was confiding having been molested was anger at the survivor. He tried to shake it off.

"Of course you were brilliant at thirteen, Sherlock. No one could ever say you weren't. But you were not emotionally mature at thirteen. That is a different type of wisdom. There was a complete lack of balance of power. There is no way you could make an adult do things he didn't want to do."

"He wanted to. I wanted to. People want sex. I wanted to understand that better. Besides, power...control... is, perhaps, overrated in this instance."

John felt an emotion he was at a complete loss to describe. God, once he had longed for something like this. To hear Sherlock Holmes actually talking about losing himself to sexual pleasure, about a lack of control being a very good thing indeed, but it was framed in the context of a thirteen-year-old Sherlock being completely manipulated by an adult.

"How did you meet this complete and utter fucker?"

"He wasn't a fucker, John. I was a bit nervous and he treated me with kindness. He provided an excellent introduction into the sexual world. I couldn't have asked for better, believe me. I enjoyed myself. I instigated it and I used him for my own ends. Manipulation. Like Molly. Like Janine."

"I, I didn't know about Molly, but, well I know nothing happened with Janine. She would complain to Mary about that, said you never would quite, go there."

"Nothing _happened _with Molly, but her attraction to me was entirely exploitable. Nice to know I was a topic of discussion between Mary and Janine. Still best friends, even after she knocked her unconscious?"

"You should talk. 'That's My Girl'?" Sherlock smiled. "Apparently, one can forgive a friend for knocking you unconscious if she was intending to shoot the man who got his kicks from flicking you in the eye. Now _you're _probably her hero. I don't know what he had on that girl, but it must have been something. And look, you've managed to pull me pretty far off track... you think I don't remember that we were talking about you thinking you manipulated your own abuse?"

"I manipulate people, John. It's what I do. I'm doing it right now... with you."

"With me? Doing what with me?"

"Changing the topic at will. That's all it was then, too. I set it up. I was curious. He was amenable."

"You make it sound like he did you a favor. Sherlock. Even if I was interested in... " John tried again. "I _have _ been interested in men before. If a child stripped down and plunked himself right in my lap and started grabbing at my prick... entirely of their own volition... I would get up and say 'whoa, what the hell?' I would have done that long before it ever got to that point, mind you. Because I am an _adult_. And children are free to explore their sexuality and to not know what they are doing, have no idea of the consequences of their actions, unintentionally flirt, _intentionally_ flirt, and it is _my _job, as an adult, not to take advantage of that fact. While they figure it all out themselves...in their own time...with someone their own age. Anything else is an abuse of power. They don't know what they are doing yet. That's the point. You don't _instruct_ a child."

Sherlock had been ready to talk, but found himself completely unaware of how to respond. They rode in silence for some time, John staring at farmland and more cows than he thought could possibly exist just a few minutes outside a large city, before Sherlock broke it.

"Maybe he didn't want to do it. I have, and _had_, more power than you give me credit for. He, was trying to reconcile. I ruined that, too."

"Damn good thing she found out. Gave her a chance to see just who the fuck she was married to. God, Sherlock. I bet she's grateful. Did he make you feel as if that was your fault? That she finally left the prick?"

"He... yes. Then he left me. Of course. I was taking too much of his time. I would lie about where I was going to get time with him. I would..."

"You would behave like a child. And he blamed it all on you, didn't he. Do you hear what you're saying yet?"

They drove on, each stewing in their own thoughts.


	5. Stars

They were a few miles from the airport, with dusk setting in, when John suddenly spoke.

"You think it's because of you! God, I'm slow sometimes. It's... His wife found out who he really was, because of you. Like I found out who Mary really was. So _that's_ why you were dragging this out of storage in your mindpalace. You think you are to blame. You think we could have lived a happy little lie, Mary and me, if it wasn't for you inconveniently getting yourself shot?"

"That's... part of it. And that I wanted..."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You are brilliant, but you are not omnipotent. And you are gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, but you are not bloody Cupid who goes traipsing around in a tight plum shirt and trousers instead of a nappy, shooting people and making them fall for you against their will. You weren't then and you aren't now. He _used_ you! You are like some cat who falls off the telly, gets up and says 'I meant to do that'. You had no control and you convinced yourself you liked it that way. Of course you were curious! Everybody's bloody curious at thirteen! You wait a few years, figure some stuff out, stew in your own juices, then go find someone your own age to figure out a bit _more_ with! You weren't some special case and my God now I'm yelling at you and fuck fuck fuck I'm sorry. Fuck."

Sherlock pulled to the side of the road.

"It's...all right. It's fine."

"No. No, it bloody _isn't_ fine. You don't get to try and calm _me_ down and comfort _me_. It doesn't work like that. You... I should be.." He looked into Sherlock's eyes, then quickly turned away. Sherlock caught his face with his hand and gently turned it back towards him, reestablishing the eye-contact, keeping his hand against his jaw.

"What, John. You... should be what?"

John looked down to where Sherlock's hand was still against his cheek. "I should be comforting _you_ Sherlock. I just want to hold you because... because I hurt that you hurt, and because I hurt even more to think that maybe, you might _not_ hurt. And that probably doesn't make any sense."

Sherlock dropped his hand down to his lap, but remained staring into John's eyes.

"Because, I've been through rehab, twice. I know what it is like when your brain is convinced you understand something that happened, but it's got it all wrong." He looked down at his leg, and ran his hand along his thigh. "And I also know what it is like for a part of you to be so injured that the nerve endings just don't transmit. Like you don't feel. And then there is pain when you finally do." John's hand rested on his injured shoulder. Sherlock placed his hand lightly on top of John's. "And I should, just hold you. There should be some glowy healing power and you should just cry in my arms or something. You should sob until all the pain is gone. And then, I'm not really sure what I'd do next, to be honest. But, you're not going to cry, are you?"

"No, John. I'm not likely to."

"I didn't think so."

"But you can still hold me. If you want to."

John put his arms around him. He thought it would be somewhat awkward, holding this much larger frame leaning into him from the driver's seat. It wasn't. For all his height, Sherlock was narrower than John and he held him tightly. Sherlock felt stiff and awkward at first, but John refused to let go, and the taller man started to feel much smaller, sinking a bit into his chest.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Can we, get out of the car? There's something I want to show you. Plus, there's a gearshift digging into my thigh."

John released him, and saw him pull away rather hesitantly. "Sorry about that."

"It was good. Except for the gear shift. Come on!"

He went around to the front of the car and climbed up on the bonnet, leaning his back against the windshield. John climbed up beside him. "Look up." There were many stars now, ones they could never see amidst the harsh lights of London, with more emerging by the second.

"Is this where you tell me you didn't like being called spectacularly ignorant, so you memorized a few books worth of facts about constellations?"

"Nope," he hit the "p" with a hard, popping sound. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate them, though." He took

John's hand in his. "You weren't surprised, when I told you about him. You were surprised by my age, of course, but not the rest. You've thought about it."

"Yes. Quite a bit. And you weren't surprised either. When I said I'd been attracted to men in the past. When I said you were... gorgeous."

Again..."Nope."

"So you've thought about that. Too."

"Yessss. Though to be honest, I do try my best to be gorgeous. It helps with the work. That part was to be expected."

John let go of Sherlock's hand and slugged him in the upper arm. Then Sherlock turned on his side to face him, leaning against the car for balance.

"But, John, since that time, I've only had brief flings with people when it suited my purpose. It was not exactly a noble purpose. I had a certain, value, to whomever I was with. It's hardly something someone like you would want."

"Someone like me?"

"Strong moral principles."

John only nodded.

"And furthermore, I'm not exactly sure what it is I want."

"Okay. We'll see. What do you want right now?"

"To hold your hand and look at the stars."

"Good. That sounds very good." John took his hand.

"And to skip this flight, and get a nice, quiet room in the country for the night."

"Also, good."

"And, maybe we can get a cottage with just the double bed this time."

"And see how it goes, right?"

"... Yes."

"Very good."


End file.
